#THANK YOU FOR THE KINGDOM HEARTS REQUEST ♡♡♡ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

r3starttt · 23 days ago

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LA DÉDICACE

PAIRING: Princess! Abby Anderson x reader

SUMMARY: Where abby falls for the woman she met at a mascarade.

CW: angsty asf but also lots of yearning and happy ending. It's a request ♡ thanks anon

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @imagoddess @lovelyy-moonlight

A.N: Inspired on Renee Vivien's poems. I enjoyed writing this request so much.

I was originally doing this for Caitlyn but ended up working with Abby. Either way... it's pretty good, me thinks.

I will beg for u, pretty amazing reader to please leave a comment or reblog this or both if you liked it even the tinniest bit. Please and thanks ♡ hope u enjoy.

It was a rare affliction, a peculiar and persistent condition that ran through the veins of the noble bloodline, one that neither healer nor sorcerer could eradicate. For two decades, no remedy—no enchanted herb, no mystical fruit, nor sacred flower—could cleanse it, as if the hand of God itself had decreed this fate. For nearly every noble child born in that time had been gifted—or burdened—with the biological form of a woman.

This had become a growing concern, a burden for those aware of the little time the King had left. What would become of the kingdom when the king passed? Would the throne remain empty, or worse, be claimed by someone unfit to rule?

Even so, Abigail had come to embody the very heart of her father’s reign. There could be no missteps, no flaws. Every moment was a calculation, for any slip would cost her dearly. With every five steps forward, one misstep could undo it all, leaving her at least six steps behind.

Her father’s affection for her was evident, but she knew it could only stretch so far. He could not afford to show weakness, even in the face of his own daughter’s love. His affection was tempered by his duty, by the crown’s expectations. She was aware that, despite the love he had for her, it would never grant her complete freedom.

Yet, Abigail remained soft-hearted, her nature too gentle for the hardened world around her. She was born to love, to represent the purest form of royalty—one that transcended power and wealth.

Her speech was carefully honed, polished with elocution and intelligence, words flowing with a cadence so refined that only the most learned would comprehend them. Consonants and vowels twisted into intricate phrases, a vocabulary that demanded respect, reserved for those worthy of understanding it. And so she adapted. She humiliated with her words, She wielded her intellect as both a shield and a sword—using it to humiliate, to elevate herself above those who sought to diminish her.

Abigail reveled in the confusion, for it was their inability to understand her that made her presence all the more commanding.

And the thought—faint at first, yet persistent—began to root itself in the deepest corners of her mind: that perhaps, somewhere beyond the stone walls and polished silver of her upbringing, there existed a man whose tongue would not stumble over flattery, whose gaze held clarity, and whose heart could mirror her own in strength and tenderness. A man whose hair bore the color of summer grain like her father’s, and whose nobility ran not through lineage, but through his deeds.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

A favor, a borrowed mask, and a friend in the castle kitchens had slipped you past the guards. It was foolish—dangerous even—but something in you longed to see how the other half lived. Just for one night.

The palace shimmered under golden candlelight, each chandelier catching the gleam of masked faces and embroidered gowns.

And then you saw her.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, tall and composed, a detailed mask made with the most expensive materials, the only one who worn color. Raming eyes and golden hair coiled back with precision. Her dress was different from the others.

When your eyes met, she didn’t look away.

She approached.

You spoke of nothing and everything—books, cities you’d never seen, dreams that didn’t belong to your class. She was clever and soft-spoken, but there was steel in the way she carried herself, like she’d been taught to command even in silence. Still, you didn’t question her name, nor did she offer one.

Hours passed unnoticed. At some point, she took your hand, guiding you through a dance you didn’t know. Her touch was steady. Gentle.

You expected mockery when you stumbled over a step, but instead, she leaned close, her breath brushing your ear.

“Follow me,” your body understood the rhythm better than your mind ever could. The rest of the world blurred. Your feet moved not with grace, but trust. It was enough.

Laughter and music spun around you like a spell. You couldn't remember the last time you felt so light, so seen. When she smiled—soft, private, meant only for you—you realized the knot that lived in your chest had loosened.

She didn’t ask about your dress, which was borrowed. Or your speech, a little too rough to pass for nobility. She didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps… perhaps she already knew.

As the night wore on, the candles melted lower. Midnight loomed, and with it, the unraveling of fantasy. You felt it before you heard it—distant bells from the outer ward, signaling the change of watch. A quiet reminder that time was not yours.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still in hers. “I should go.”

Something flickered across her face. Regret? Frustration? She didn’t argue, but she also didn’t let go.

“One more minute,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “May I have your name?"

You hesitated. Your eyes drifted to the crowd, to the towering ceiling, to the place you knew you didn’t belong.

Her lips parted slightly—just slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile. Not this time.

“Let me see you,” she said, as if taking your mask off with her voice.

But you couldn’t.

You slipped away. And she let you go.

You didn’t know her name.

And you would soon haunt her thoughts.

When the moon weeps,

illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,

my memories creep

back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.

Love, if only you would come again—

My hands could hold your fragile wings.

But time slips like water through my fingers

And my soul remains thirsty, empty.

— A. A.

Abigail found herself longing —selfishly, perhaps—for such a intimate encounter like she had with you. For someone who could shield her without binding her, who could love her not despite who she was, but because of it. Someone as soft as you felt that night.

She prayed. Quiet, hopeless prayers to a god she was not even sure she believed in, hoping that if divinity ever listened, it might listen now. And though the desire was delicate, even innocent at its core, it was also indulgent. For a woman born into power, even dreaming of such things was its own form of rebellion.

Still, she clung to the thought like one clings to warmth in winter, and eventually, it drove her to act. With uncharacteristic nerve, she asked the king—her father—for a rare permission. She wished to leave the palace walls. Just once. To see beyond the curated beauty of rose gardens and marble columns. He agreed, reluctantly. And so she went, dressed in garments that barely clung to her body, coarse fabric draped in a way no noblewoman would dare be seen. A cloak of shadows sewn by her trusted maid, who accompanied her closely.

The streets were crowded with the hungry and the poor. The scent of ash, sweat, and desperation lingered in the air like a curse. But she was not broken by the sight. She had always known this world existed—her education had not spared her such truths—but it had remained a distant concept until now. Weakness, her father once said, is a luxury afforded only to fools. And she had taken that lesson to heart.

Still, it was in this moment of carefully guarded defiance that fate began to stir.

She thought her journey would remain uneventful—a quiet, dangerous indulgence.

The same path that had led her through narrow alleys and cobbled streets now brought her to a modest marketplace. Here, the world was loud and alive—vendors shouting prices, children pulled tightly by their mothers' hands, food exchanged for coin in desperate urgency. She moved with care, slipping between the crowds, eyes wide and curious.

And then she saw it.

A small wooden stall, nearly hidden among the others, bore a collection of books. Old and weathered, but dignified. One, in particular, caught her attention. Its spine was cracked, its edges softened with use, but the author’s name glinted faintly beneath the dust—poetry, surely. She reached for it, compelled by a hunger she could not name.

Before her fingers could graze the cover, a hand snatched it away.

“It isn’t for sale,” came a voice—calm, firm, feminine.

Startled, she looked up to meet the eyes of a young woman, perhaps no older than herself. Her hands were ink-stained, her gaze sharp.

Abigail’s brows furrowed, not in fury, but confusion. She was not used to being refused.

For a moment, the princess simply stared—no words, no breath, no pretense. Just awe.

A woman… with a book.

Abigail straightened, smoothing the front of her coarse, borrowed cloak as if it could somehow conceal the nobility in her posture. She reminded herself that here, in the dusty stalls of the outer market, she was no more than another traveler with a few coins to spare.

"I apologize," she said, her tone soft but poised. “I thought it was part of the selection.”

The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze was lowered, careful, her body turning slightly to hide the book from further view. Not defiant—guarded. As if hiding something more dangerous than poetry.

Abby tilted her head, her curiosity blooming faster than she could contain. She knew what that kind of secrecy meant. That book hadn’t been purchased with ease. It had been fought for—perhaps traded for meals, hidden under floorboards.

The round eyes of the princess flicked over the rest of the stall—stacks of worn leather covers, the delicate crinkle of pages long loved or long forgotten. Titles that ranged from crude farming manuals to religious texts, even a faded volume of sonnets with gilded corners. Her fingers hovered over the bindings like someone choosing which star to pluck from the sky.

"How much for this one?" she asked casually, selecting a thick, obscure volume she already owned in triplicate back in the palace library.

The woman hesitated. Named a fair price.

Abby smiled, polite, distant. “And the rest of this row?”

That drew the woman’s eyes upward. Suspicion. Curiosity. She named another sum—one that no commoner would offer so easily. Abby didn’t flinch. She placed the coins on the wooden table, deliberately overpaying by more than half.

She didn’t say why.

And as she turned to leave, she caught the briefest glimpse of the woman watching her—no thanks, no smile. But her fingers had softened around the book, her shoulders ever so slightly less rigid.

Abigail walked away feeling like she had read something more intimate than poetry that day. And she would return.

Abigail approached the book stall quietly, her eyes scanning the crowd. She'd already passed by it twice before finally deciding to stop, half-hoping the woman wouldn't notice her hesitation. Her cloak fluttered lightly behind her as she moved through the throngs, a deliberate, purposeful walk to the stall that had caught her attention so many times before.

It had been a week since their last encounter. She had meant to return sooner, but her duties had held her captive.

As she reached the stall, the woman looked up, their eyes meeting with the briefest flicker of recognition. There was a coolness in the air between them. The woman’s eyes spoke volumes of the caution she held.

“You're back” The woman’s voice was guarded, but there was a faint curiosity hidden beneath it. A statement and a question at once.

Abby nodded, glancing at the books displayed on the rickety wooden table. She ran her fingers over the leather bindings as she spoke. Her fingers gripped a small, intricately bound book she’d picked up from the royal library.

It caught your attention. That was clear. But after having received a huge amount of money from the woman in front of you, all you could think of was to not trust her. You knew better than to fall for money, but hunger had made you take it.

The nobles where selfish, and as much as you desired to allow their charity, you knew the consequences of it could go as far as ending with your life.

“You’re generous, but I’m not in need of charity.”

"Who said anything about charity?” She set the book down gently on the table, pushing it towards you. “It’s a trade. Nothing more.”

As far as you could tell, her tone was as honest as it was sophisticated. You hesitated, your fingers brushing the book before returning your gaze back to the woman in front of you. “You’ve been very generous with your coin before. A little too generous for my taste,” your tone cutting yet with a layer of genuine wariness.

Abby glanced down at her hands, feeling a flicker of guilt. “I don’t want your distrust.”

You leaned forward, just enough to get a proper look of her face. “A woman like you has no need for my meager books. And yet… you keep returning. That’s more than I can understand.”

And after a small pause, you reached for the small pouch of coins the blonde had placed beside the book. You allowed your fingers to brush the velvet fabric, giving the woman a quiet appraising look.

“This is more than I could ever ask for,” your tone tinged with both surprise and reluctance. “You’ve given me far too much.”

Abigail smiled again, though this time it was softer, more genuine. “I will come back." Her lips curved up into a subtle smile, and for the briefest of moments, the tension eased.

Ever since that first exchange, Abigail kept returning. At first, it was infrequent—perhaps once every few weeks, when the weight of royal duty would lift long enough for her to venture outside the palace walls, wrapped in the guise of a mere commoner. She was careful, always cautious not to attract too much attention.

Abigail never brought more than what was needed. She was always respectful in her exchanges, never forcing the conversation beyond what was comfortable.

For the first few exchanges, you kept your distance, aware that life could be changed by the mere presence of a noble. Abigail would offer her a few extra coins, always polite, but never asking anything of it beyond the books. Each time, you would glance at the coins, as though calculating their worth, and then slip them into your pocket, still with some doubt.

But it was the books that spoke more than anything. With every new volume that Abigail brought, a part of her own story unfolded for you. She brought not just simple novels or works of fiction, but the classics—poetry, philosophy.

What intrigued you most, however, was that Abigail never expected anything in return—at least, not explicitly. She didn’t press for anything other than the books in exchange. There were no strings attached, no promises of wealth or favors. She had all of that already.

But over time, something changed. It wasn’t just the books. The more Abigail returned, the more she lingered, sometimes even engaging in brief, innocent conversations. She asked about the books and your opinions, what you'd learned from them, and sometimes, if she was feeling bold, about your life outside the stall. At first, you had been hesitant to share any details. Your life was full of hardship, days spent scraping by. You wasn’t someone who had the luxury of talking about dreams or aspirations.

“Do you ever think about leaving?”

It was an innocuous question, one that any other noblewoman might ask in passing. But there was no pity in her eyes. Only curiosity.

“You can’t leave. Not when you’ve nothing to your name but this stall.”

Abigail nodded, understanding. “But surely you have dreams, something you long for?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of each of your unspoken desires.

“I dream of reading more,” you admitted, not honestly but enough to suffice her curiosity.

Abigail’s gaze softened, but there was a quiet intensity in her eyes, as though she could see the layers beneath your words—those that you had not said aloud. She didn’t press you, but she was patient, allowing the silence to linger between you.

“You dream of reading more…” Abigail repeated your words, her voice gentle but knowing. There was no judgment, no disbelief. She simply allowed the truth to unfold in its own time.

“Books are a start,” she said softly, her tone warm. "But there's more than books in life."

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes for a moment, but her soft expression never wavered. She wasn’t asking for anything more. She was simply… acknowledging.

"Not for everyone," you said finally, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Abigail was silent for a moment, but then she stepped a little closer. “You could have more than just books.”

You looked at her then, the magnitude of what she was offering beginning to settle over you. You had always been taught to rely on yourself, to take what you could from life, no matter how little. But here was someone offering to change that, offering something you’d never dared to ask for: a chance.

And the strangest thing was, you didn’t know whether to be skeptical, to distrust her offer because of who she was—or to believe.

But fear is bigger than hunger some times.

“I don’t know what you mean," you said softly, avoiding her gaze as to end this conversation.

Abigail’s gaze softened. She would never give empty promises, and less ask for anything in return. She was simply offering what she could.

It happened swiftly.

A nobleman—one you’d only ever seen from afar—had spotted you lingering at your stall too long. Perhaps it was the way your fingers turned the pages with too much familiarity. Or maybe the way your eyes scanned the titles like you knew them. Whatever it was, it drew attention.

They returned at dawn with two guards and a parchment bearing the royal seal. You tried to deny it, claimed the stall was someone else’s. You were simply helping. But a quick search unearthed your notes hidden beneath the crates, your writing—your handwriting—and books you’d copied by hand. Evidence, they called it.

A woman. Reading. Selling books. Writing.

Unheard of.

You were dragged through the streets, past jeering stares and hushed murmurs, your skirts muddied, your lip bloodied where a guard had lost patience.

You were being held in a cold, stone chamber. You hadn’t spoken, keeping your eyes low, your body still.

Until the doors burst open.

And there she was.

Not in her common cloak or with dirt on her cheeks—but in velvet. Dark and royal. Her golden hair braided up and away from her face, her spine straight as a sword.

“Release her,” she said. Her voice didn’t raise—it didn’t need to.

The guards glanced at one another. “But, Your Grace—”

“She stands accused of treason. An accusation of such gravity must be handled with care, not brute force,” Abigail said coolly, a tone laced with sharp authority as she stepped forward. “I shall escort her to His Majesty myself.”

You stared at her, betrayal and awe mixing in your stomach. Her Grace?

Abby didn’t meet your eyes. Not until the guards obeyed, not until your wrists were cut loose and your trembling form collapsed against her without meaning to.

Then, and only then, she looked at you.

“I apologize,” she whispered.

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

But when her hand slipped gently into yours, guiding you down the echoing halls of the palace, you didn’t let go.

The palace corridors were colder than you had imagined—colder even than the cell. The air hummed with stillness, untouched by wind or warmth. Each step echoed too loudly, your muddied skirts whispering shame against the polished stone. Behind the impassive masks of the guards, behind the glint of helmets and spears, you could feel the eyes. Watching. Judging. Knowing.

Maids lingered in corners, nobles passed at a distance, halting ever so slightly as if they sensed something was amiss. A peasant woman, bruised and bleeding, being pulled through the halls by the hand of the princess. You caught their glances—curious, disgusted, afraid. Perhaps some pitied you. Perhaps they remembered once standing where you stood now. Or perhaps they simply watched the spectacle unfold, as people always did when someone beneath them stumbled.

And still, she didn’t look back.

Abigail’s hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm despite the chill. Only when the heavy doors closed behind you, cutting the world away with a soft thud, did she stop.

Her chambers were suffocating in their beauty. A great fire flickered in the hearth, gold and amber licking the carved stone. Velvet curtains billowed faintly over tall windows that framed the last light of the sun. The furniture gleamed with polish and expense, everything arranged not for comfort, but presentation. It was the kind of room that could silence a person.

And it silenced you.

Because here, now, surrounded by the spoils of her life, the truth became unbearable. With one of her rings, she could buy a year of your survival. One of her shoes, a month of bread. With a single necklace—forgotten, perhaps, at the bottom of a drawer—she could pay off every debt you’d ever inherited.

It was obscene. It was staggering.

It was her.

She turned to face you then, and for the first time since the cell, the mask cracked. Her poise faltered—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. Enough to know it cost her something.

“I am sorry,” she said, not softly this time, not like before. Her voice trembled with something deeper, something close to shame. “More than I can say.”

“You lied to me.”

It came out flat, brittle, like a blade dropped on stone.

“I did not lie,” she answered carefully. “I withheld the truth.”

“That is a lie.”

She flinched—not visibly, but internally, something shifted. She stepped toward you, paused, then held herself still with deliberate restraint.

“It was never my intention to deceive you. I swear it. But revealing who I am—it would’ve placed you in more danger, not less. I thought... if I stayed silent, I could keep you safe.”

Your chest tightened, the words catching like thorns in your throat. “It was never going to be safe,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Not for me. Not for people like me.”

She said nothing. Because she knew.

“You,” you continued, your voice growing steadier, harsher, “You can wrap a scarf around your head and walk through the market like it’s some kind of game. Smell the rot, hear the cries, pretend to understand. But I live it. I bleed for it. I stood there every day until my legs gave out, until the guards tore my stall apart and dragged me through the filth for daring to read. And you—”

Your voice cracked. “You disappeared. And I paid for it.”

Silence settled, thick and suffocating. Abigail’s eyes dropped for a moment, her jaw tight with guilt.

“I would give anything to go back,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate, every syllable weighted with remorse. “Had I known what would happen, I would have torn down the palace gates to stop it. But I did not know. And now all I can offer is this: let me make it right.”

She stepped forward, slow, her hands open at her sides. “I will speak to the King. The charges will be erased. I will see to it myself.”

You stared at her. “And then what?” you asked. “You think I can just go back to the ashes of my life and start again?”

“I don’t expect that.”

Your voice dropped. “I have nowhere to go.”

She winced again, and you knew then she’d never considered what having nothing truly meant. Not until she saw it stitched into your skin, bruised into your lip.

“You can stay here,” she said, quieter now, but with clarity. “Not as a servant. Not as a prisoner. As my guest. Protected. Free, for as long as you choose.”

You let out a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow. “Free? Under a crown? Under your watch?”

Abigail’s expression didn’t change. But her voice, when it came, was fiercer than before.

“I will not pretend that I can erase your suffering. Nor will I insult you by asking for your trust. But know this: no harm will come to you while I draw breath."

And still, you didn’t speak. Because it didn’t feel like a choice—it felt like surrender. All that you had built—small, fragile, secret—burned down in a single morning. And in its place, stood a stranger wrapped in velvet, offering a different kind of cage.

Yet what choice did you have?

With your heart bleeding in your hands, with pride worn thin and dignity stripped bare, you nodded.

The door creaked open long past midnight.

You were more than awake. Sleep had long abandoned you in this place—where the sheets were too soft, the air too still, the silence too unnatural. You sat at the window, knees hugged to your chest, the fire burned low behind you.

Your eyes were still red, body and face bruised and covered in dirt and sweat.

When she entered, Abigail looked heavy. It was clear the news would not be nice. Not for you.

Her braid had started to come loose around her face and her hands were held tight. For once, you allowed yourself to stare back, to look every inch of skin that defined her face. Until she spoke.

“He’s allowed it,” she continued. “You may stay. You won’t be tried. The charges are to be forgotten.”

For once today it felt like maybe your life was worth it. Like the rage in your stomach could be forgotten if you just let out a breath you've held since she left you in the overwhelming of expensiveness.

“But,” she added, and you held your breath again. “It comes with condition.”

Of course it does.

You said nothing. She waited, but you didn’t speak, and so she did instead.

“You’ll have to work. Officially. Be assigned a role—maid, laundress, kitchen help. You’ll be paid. Fed. But you won’t be free to wander. And you will answer to the steward.”

You scoffed—barely more than a breath, but she heard it. Her clothes moved beautifully as she dragged herself closer to you. “I begged him to let you stay as my guest. But he wouldn’t allow it. Said no woman without title or trade stays under his roof without purpose.”

She continued after you held your words.

“I accepted,” she said, precise. “Because the alternative was your death.”

That shut you up. Any single thought on your mind erased at the pronunciation of such word.

“I’ll see to it that you’re given the lightest duties. You won’t scrub floors or clean privies. I’ll speak to the head of the linens or the kitchens—”

“I’ll do what I must,” you cut in quietly. “It’s more than most get.”

You stood then, brushing your hands down the plain clothes you've worn all day.

“I can’t promise I’ll be grateful,” you murmured.

Abigail’s voice was softer than before. “I don’t need your gratitude.” She meant her words, and you could tell.

You looked at her then. Really looked once again. She was oddly beautiful in an impossible way—too poised, too noble. But her eyes were tired, red at the corners. Her jaw was tight. You wondered how many people had ever dared speak to her without bowing.

You stepped past her to the bed and simply stared at it. Not like something to be used, but something to be earned.

You just stood there—fists curled, muscles drawn tight, like you might still be dragged away at any moment.

“When do I start?” you asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

You nodded once, like it hurt.

Abby hesitated. Then stepped closer—slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a frightened animal. Her voice gentled. “You’re still bleeding.”

You blinked.

“I saw it earlier,” she went on, eyes catching the cut at your lip, the ugly purple swelling along your cheekbone. Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly. “Please. Let me help.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence wasn’t a refusal. Just… stunned stillness.

“There’s a basin in the side room. I’ll draw water." Her tone became more formal, more deliberate—like she was giving you a choice no one else ever had. “You can bathe in privacy. I’ll send for clean cloths. And I have balm for the bruising—rosehip and myrrh. It’s gentle.”

You stared at her, your throat thick. No one had ever offered you softness after pain. Not like this.

“For tonight,” she added, a little quieter, “let me make it less unbearable.”

Still, you hesitated—until you caught the way her hands shook slightly, clasped in front of her. You weren’t the only one wounded here.

When the moon gazes upon my face,

I think of you.

When the night holds me in silence,

I hear your breath.

Your name is the last thing

I speak before sleep takes me.

— A. A.

The sun had barely begun to rise, and already the garden was alive with fresh smells. You found yourself there—on the edge of the palace’s sprawling grounds—fingertips brushing over the cool leaves of the herbs. There was something oddly peaceful about the place, about the quiet hum of the early morning. No jeering, no judgment. Just earth beneath your feet and the scent of thyme and rosemary in the air.

The task was simple—gather what you could for the kitchens. But in a place like this, simplicity felt like a fleeting thing. Everything about the palace weighed heavily on your chest. The duties you now had, the role you played. Even if it was a “gift,” the reality of it felt more like a gilded cage than sanctuary.

You bent down to pluck a few sprigs of parsley, the cool soil soft against your hands, when the quiet hum of footsteps reached your ears.

Abigail.

She didn’t announce herself.

You didn’t even see her approach, but you felt her presence the moment she stood just behind you, a space between you but still close enough for you to hear the rustling of her silk cloak as it moved with her.

“Should you be here?” you asked without looking up.

Yet, before she could make any sound, one of the older maids had come around the corner and froze at the sight. “Your Grace,” she whispered, blanching. “You shouldn’t be—if the steward finds out—”

“I’ll speak with him,” Abigail said simply, without turning. “And if he has concerns, he may bring them to me.”

“But—”

Abigail turned around, the sternness in her frown being enough for the woman to duck her head and vanish.

“You’ll get us in trouble,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand from your task. “They think I’m not suitable. If you keep showing up, they’ll start treating me worse, not better.” Your tone had grown quieter since you arrived.

Abigail wasn't only here for you, but you were indeed the main interest.

She had slept in worry about how would you adjust. If you would be in any danger when she wasn't around.

That you didn't know, and for your eyes she was a selfish princess who thought knew better.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she said softly. “I made myself clear the night you arrived. You are to be shown dignity, same as anyone else in this castle.”

You blinked at her, struck silent. Each time she spoke it only got you confused. You simply won't ever trust her. It was impossible to comprehend such a woman. She couldn't actually care about a stranger. And if so, it had to do more than just a shared love for books.

"Would you allow me to help?" her question made you jump at the sudden if sound other than breeze and women yelling in the kitchen.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Sure."

She had insisted for weeks now. Not with words but with the way her eyes stared at what you'd gathered or how she wandered in the kitchen even after being begged by the women there to stop doing so.

She knelt beside you, her fingers delicately brushing against the leaves, almost like she was afraid to disturb the stillness of the space. You couldn’t help but notice the ease with which she worked, how even something as simple as this seemed to become something of grace when she was involved.

The two of you worked in silence for a while.

It wasn’t the silence that struck you, it was the subtle closeness that had grown between you, the quiet understanding that was slowly building with every small gesture.

Maybe you could eventually trust her.

"Do you know my name?" she asked suddenly, her voice laced with a kind of quiet amusement, as if the question was an invitation.

You blinked, not entirely sure where this was going. "Abigail," you said, your voice hesitant, as if testing the waters. "That’s all they say."

She paused for a moment, leaning back as her expression softened at the sight of a bee dancing over lavander. She stared at you then, looking at your hair, your neck. Your eyes and nose and lips. "What may I call you?”

She looked with innocence. A genuine interest.

And as you spoke your name, it all made since.

There is no garden where I walk,

But a world of roses

That you have left behind.

Each step I take upon your name,

Each breath a memory you have given me.

— A. A.

You eventually grew familiar with the castle.

Not comfortable—never that—but familiar. You memorized the rhythm of the guards steps, the scent of the kitchens before noon, and the way the light warmed the stone differently depending on the time of day. You came to understand its mood. And more than once, you found yourself lost in it—on purpose.

After all, it wasn’t the first time you’d walked those halls.

But now, your steps took you beyond the scullery and the washroom. Beyond the garden paths where you pretended not to notice the woman who always found you there. Abigail. Princess. Her Grace.

She had made it a quiet mission to gift you books—slipping them into your hands when no one looked, pretending they were forgotten things, unwanted. But her eyes always lingered a beat too long, her voice always softened at the handoff. At first, she gave you simple stories. Then poems. Then banned texts again, bound in worn leather or too-new covers that meant she’d taken risks for them. For you.

Her shame was as small as her restraint. She invited you to her alcove again under the guise of reading. Then to the library, with a confidence too casual to be honest. You never said no, not once. But you never let yourself stay long, either.

Still, she had not once left you alone for a whole day. Somehow, she always appeared—ghostlike and golden—on the edge of your hours. In the garden with some excuse. In the kitchen asking about herbs she already knew. Sometimes, knocking at your chamber door, only to say she’d forgotten what she meant to say in the first place.

Abigail wasn’t sure when it began. The unraveling.

Only that it had. And that now she was helpless against it.

She thought of you more often than the laws she was born to uphold. More than her duties, her gowns, her name.

She didn’t know how to bear it.

In the solitude of her room, when the moon hung heavy and she was left with her thoughts and too many luxuries, she thought of the first time she saw you.

Not in chains. Not bloodied.

But in silk.

Under the soft light of the masquerade—when your mask had been simple but your laughter louder than music. When your hand had brushed hers for a moment too long, and she’d thought, foolishly, that she’d never forget the feeling of it. That was the night she’d wanted to kiss you. When she still didn’t know your name but already wanted to learn it.

Now she did know it. She whispered it into her pillow when refused to allow herself pleasure.

And it only hurt more. It tore at her to remember who you had been before she failed you. Before her world and its rules pulled you into a prison. And she hated herself for having the power to save you and still not being able to give you freedom.

She couldn’t kiss you now.

Couldn’t touch you.

Couldn’t even stare for too long without fear clawing its way into her throat.

What if you hated her for it? What if you saw her as nothing more than your keeper, your chain disguised in shiny velvet?

What if someone saw?

So she suffered in silence, and soothed herself—ironically—with the very thought that burned her.

You.

And meanwhile, you did everything in your power to keep yourself away from thoughts like those.

She was the princess. A tender built of stars and stained glass. And you—now—were just another girl who worked beneath her roof. One of many.

You folded linens and scrubbed your hands raw and didn’t dare speak her name aloud unless required. That was reality.

And anything else was more than foolish.

It was dangerous, even.

You would not dream. Could not afford to.

But god, at times… when you let your guard slip—when she tilted her head just so, or smiled too softly, or touched your wrist under the guise of handing you a book—your eyes betrayed you. They slipped to her mouth. To the freckles dotting her cheekbones. To the scar by her cheek she never spoke of.

And you would hate yourself for it.

You would remember that night at the masquerade. You would remember how she’d held your waist without trembling, how you’d felt like a secret worth keeping, how you’d nearly leaned in—

And you would regret.

Regret leaving. Regret not kissing her. Not touching her longer. Not letting her look at you like you mattered.

And worse still, you would feel guilty for missing a fantasy, when she had granted you a reality—life.

She had let you live.

And you were squandering it on daydreams. On sighs.

You told yourself to forget.

But your body remembered. Your heart

It remembered everything.

There is no place I belong

more than the space between your hands

when you braid your hair in the sun

and forget that I am watching.

You reach for thyme in the garden—

fingers brushing mine,

and I pretend it is the wind

that leaves me aching.

It looked like a profanity to you. The words you've written on the paper, now hidden between the pages of a book you were meant to return soon.

Yet your heart could wish for nothing but them profanities to reach Abigail.

You needed her to know.

Needed her love even if it killed you.

She hadn’t meant to read it. Truly.

She hadn’t even seen the small piece of paper until a servant noticed it.

At first, she thought it a recipe perhaps. And her respect for you held her from reading it.

It was her hands holding the thin material– reluctant to let it go and return it to you–that had her eyes reading her name. Not written but confessed.

Abby froze. The silence of her alcove pressed in close, thick with breath she forgot to take.

Her fingers trembled as they unfolded the rest of it, and her lips parted without a sound as she read.

The paper felt too fragile in her hand, like if she blinked it would disappear, like it had been meant only for the moment her heart cracked open and not a second longer.

She read it again. And again. Each time slower.

And then she was moving.

The book slammed shut. She left her alcove without else but her thin white sleeping clothes, her heart thundering louder than her steps as she moved through the hallways. Past guards. Past a maid who startled at her pace. Past the kitchens and their fire. Into the shadowed servants' wing.

She didn’t hesitate. She knocked until you opened the door.

"Abigail?"

She crossed the room before your breath could catch. She held the paper—the poem—shook in her fingers.

“You wrote this,” she stated in a tone similar to a plead. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was low, as if the walls might echo it back too cruelly. But there was wonder in it too. Terror and reverence.

You looked down. Shame bloomed in your throat. “No.”

“You wrote this.” She said it again, softer. She was trembling now. “And it was me you meant. Wasn’t it?”

The breath she exhaled was sharp, close to a sob. Her hand came to her chest, clutching fabric that meant nothing now.

“The masquerade. I never forgot.”

Only there you looked. She was breaking beneath you. And there was no point in denying it.

“I remember,” you said.

Silence. But not the painful kind.

“I have longed for you in silence,” Abigail said. “And hated myself for it. But if there is truth in these words…” She raised the poem slightly. “If there is even a sliver of hope—then say it. Please.”

Your breath caught, and for the first time, you didn’t look away.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came. Nothing except a soundless ache, the shape of a yes that wouldn’t yet rise to meet your lips.

And Abby��s eyes—God, her eyes—searched yours like she was drowning and looking for shore.

She moved.

Not a question.

She kissed you like she’d been waiting her whole life for the moment to arrive.

Her hands rose, hesitant at first, until she cupped your jaw and cheeks, and her mouth met yours like prayer. Like poetry. Like your poem.

Like her poems.

The paper drifted from her fingers as if it, too, knew it was no longer needed.

And your body—your body betrayed you beautifully. It leaned into hers before you could even think, lips parting to meet her, your hand rising to rest just above her heart, where it beat frantically beneath silk and skin.

The world hushed.

It didn’t vanish, not entirely—but it softened. The walls receded. The rules and roles and titles dulled to distant echoes.

There was only the warmth of her mouth, the way she trembled against you, the faint salt of a tear neither of you dared name.

When she pulled back, it was barely an inch. Her breath was on your skin.

And all you could do—all you wanted to do—was pull her back in.

So you did.

You kissed her like you were finally allowed to breathe.

#abby x reader #abby x reader fluff #abby x reader smut #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby x you #abby x y/n #abby x fem reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x black reader #abby anderson fluff #abby anderson smut #tlou x reader #tlou x you #tlou x y/n #tlou fluff #tlou smut

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xichilie · 3 months ago

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hiii!! i love all your Brant fics so much omg thank you for feeding my brainrot, i literally check back for updates almost every day YOU FEED ALL THE BRANT LOVERS SO WELL AHHH i come with a request!! so, troupe of fools! reader and Brant, they've been pining each other for awhile, like the tension is crazyyy, anyways they have to perform a dance/duet together. basically think of the scene with Rover and Carlotta dancing at the troupes base in the story while Brant was narrating, the romantic undertones and everything!! except in this scenario Brant and reader are dancing while another troupe member is narrating it, and doing the same thing Brant did in the story quest and like seeing their chemistry they decide to take creative liberty and take a more romantic approach hehe i leave the rest to your creative powers on how it'll end (and of course feel free to tweak things around too)!! thank you again for all your fics i love them dearly <3

I'm happy you enjoy my fics♡, I will keep feeding you 🤭

I hope everyone got lucky on his banner, I still have to wait. it's not out yet for EU servers 🤍

Brant x (fem)reader

The Dance of Fools

Fool’s Elysium was alive with sound, the cavern filled with the rhythmic beat of drums, the lively chatter of performers, and the flickering warmth of countless lanterns strung along the rocky ceiling. The stage—an aged but beloved wooden platform—stood at the heart of it all, surrounded by the eager eyes of the Troupe of Fools.

Tonight was not yet the Carnevale itself, but rehearsals always carried their own magic. The air was thick with anticipation, buzzing with energy as the Troupe prepared for their grand performance. It was a ritual, a tradition, a spectacle that bound them all together.

Brant had always thrived in moments like these.

Yet, tonight, something was different.

Tonight, his confidence felt stretched thin, barely concealing the turmoil beneath.

And the cause of it?

Y/N.

She stood just beyond the stage, adjusting the delicate ribbons of her costume, the crimson fabric flowing over her form like liquid fire. The candlelight played along her features, accentuating every graceful movement, and Brant had to force himself to breathe.

They had been dancing around each other for months now, skirting the edge of something unspoken. A lingering glance here, a brush of fingers there, laughter that lasted just a beat too long. It was a game neither of them dared to acknowledge, yet neither of them could stop playing.

But now, there was no room for pretense. No stolen moments hidden in the background.

Tonight, they would dance together.

Brant had danced with countless partners before, had commanded the stage with effortless charm and practiced ease. But this? This was different.

Because it wasn’t just a dance.

It was her.

And that changed everything.

“Alright, you two ready?”

Brant barely registered Riff’s voice, though the other Fool was lounging comfortably atop a pile of cushions, script in hand, preparing to narrate the scene.

He exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his embroidered coat, forcing an easy smirk onto his lips. “Born ready.”

Then Y/N turned to him, her eyes catching his, and for a split second, the world shrank to just the two of them.

A challenge. A question.

And something deeper. Something that sent heat curling low in his stomach.

The music began, slow and intoxicating.

Brant extended his hand. “Shall we?”

She hesitated—just for a breath—before slipping her fingers into his.

The moment they touched, he felt it.

A spark, a pull—something dangerous.

Riff’s voice rose above the melody, slipping into that same poetic cadence Brant himself had once used.

“Once upon a time, in the shadows of a fallen kingdom, two souls danced upon the edge of fate… A Fool, ever laughing, ever free, and a Wanderer, searching for something lost…”

Brant stepped forward, guiding her into the first movement. Their steps were smooth, effortless—muscle memory taking over as they moved in perfect harmony.

But it was the way they moved that made the air thick.

Every turn brought them closer.

Every touch lingered a second too long.

Brant’s hand found the curve of her waist, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her costume, grounding himself in the warmth of her. Her palm settled over his chest—right over his Tacet mark—and a thrill shot through him at the thought that she might feel the wild rhythm of his heart beneath her fingertips.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But gods, it did.

“They danced not as strangers, nor as mere performers, but as something more—tangled in a story neither dared to name…”

Brant spun her beneath his arm, only to pull her back flush against him. Their bodies fit together too well, moving with a synchronicity that couldn’t be rehearsed. His breath hitched—he could smell the faintest trace of something sweet on her skin, could feel the warmth of her against him.

And then—

Her fingers brushed against his jaw.

Brant stopped breathing.

The touch was light, barely there, but it burned like wildfire.

For the first time in his life, his mind went blank.

She was touching him.

Looking at him like she knew.

Like she had always known.

The music swelled. The final movement approached.

Brant knew what was supposed to happen next—

He was meant to dip her, hold her there for a beat, and then spin her away in a grand flourish. A show-stopping moment, nothing more.

But when the time came—

He didn’t let her go.

Instead, he held her there, dipped low in his arms, her body molded against his. Their noses brushed, their breath mingling, and the cavern fell into absolute silence.

The music had faded, the performance had ended—

But he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

The only thing anchoring him to reality was her.

Someone cleared their throat.

“Well… I think we just found our new finale.”

Scattered laughter, a few teasing whistles—

But Brant barely heard them.

Because Y/N was still in his arms, looking up at him with something raw and unguarded in her expression.

This wasn’t just a performance.

This had never been just a performance.

And judging by the way she was staring at him—

She knew it too.

Brant wasn’t sure how he made it through the next few minutes.

There was applause, murmurs of praise, playful nudges from the others—none of it registered.

His body was moving on autopilot, smiling where he needed to, nodding when expected, but his mind was still caught in that final moment.

That final touch.

By the time he realized she was no longer in the room, she was already gone.

His heart stuttered.

Without hesitation, he followed.

The deeper caverns of Fool’s Elysium were quieter, the echoes of music and laughter fading into the distance. He found her by the water’s edge, lanterns casting golden ripples across the surface.

She didn’t turn when he approached.

“Running away?” His voice was light, teasing—his usual mask.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “I could say the same about you.”

Brant hesitated.

Then—softer—

“You felt it too.”

It wasn’t a question.

A pause.

Then, finally—

“Yes.”

Brant closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling shakily.

When he opened them, she was watching him, expression unreadable.

Brant swallowed, taking a step closer.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to reach for her, to close the impossible distance still between them.

“We can’t keep dancing around this,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, rougher.

Y/N smiled, small but real.

And then—

“What if I don’t want to?”

Brant’s heart stopped.

The weight of those words, the meaning behind them—

His usual charm, his quick wit—gone.

All he could do was stare.

At her.

At the way her lips curved in amusement, waiting for him to say something, anything.

But he couldn’t.

Because for the first time in his life—

Brant had no words.

He had always been quick with words. A charmer, a performer, a master of knowing exactly what to say and when to say it.

But now?

Now he stood before her, utterly speechless.

Because Y/N was still looking at him like that—like she knew. Like she had always known.

And she had just given him permission to stop pretending.

The silence stretched between them, thick with something that made the air feel heavier, warmer.

Brant could hear the faint sounds of the others celebrating deeper in the cavern, but here, at the water’s edge, it was just the two of them.

Waiting.

The golden glow of lanterns flickered against her skin, reflecting in her eyes, and damn, she was beautiful. He had always known it—always been drawn to her in a way he couldn’t quite explain. But now, there was no audience, no music, no script.

Just them.

And Brant had never been more terrified in his life.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to move, to do something—say something—but all the usual bravado, all the witty lines he might have used, failed him.

Because this was real.

And he had never been very good at real.

Y/N tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. “No clever remark?”

Brant exhaled a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Not this time.”

Her smile widened. “That’s a first.”

And then—before he could second-guess himself—Brant moved.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing along her jaw, light as a whisper. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into the touch, her breath hitching just enough for him to hear it.

That sound—soft, vulnerable—nearly unraveled him.

Brant swallowed hard. His thumb traced over her cheekbone, memorizing the warmth of her skin beneath his touch. His heart was a wild drumbeat in his chest, but for once, he didn’t care if she felt it.

He wanted her to.

His voice was lower when he spoke, rough with something unsteady.

“Tell me to stop.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she reached up, fingers curling around his coat, pulling him closer.

Brant barely had time to register the movement before she closed the remaining distance between them.

Her lips met his—soft, warm, real—and for a moment, his mind went completely blank.

Then—

Everything exploded.

The tension that had been building between them for months snapped like a taut string, and Brant melted into her, his arms wrapping around her waist as he deepened the kiss.

She made a quiet sound against his lips, something like a sigh, and gods, that was enough to set him on fire.

This was the breaking of a dam, the answer to a question neither of them had dared to ask.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand pressing firmly against the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. She was warm, intoxicating, and Brant was drowning—willingly.

By the time they broke apart, both of them were breathless.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, searching his, her lips still parted, her breath mingling with his.

Brant grinned.

“Now that,” he murmured, voice husky, “was a finale.”

She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Brant smirked. “Not when it comes to you.”

Her smile softened, her fingers tracing absent patterns over the fabric of his coat. “Good.”

Brant’s heart stuttered.

There was no teasing in her tone. No hesitation.

Just certainty.

And that—more than anything—was what undid him.

For the first time in his life, Brant wasn’t just playing a role.

This wasn’t a performance.

This was real.

And damn, he was all in.

#x reader #wuwa brant #brant wuwa #brant x reader #wuthering waves brant #brant #wuwa art #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #brant wuthering waves #x y/n #x you #love

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moonstruckme · 11 months ago

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hi i have a request that you're obviously under no obligation to answer but i saw that you did a royal au for sirius and i was wondering if you'd be open to doing another?

something like they're in a secret relationship and they're at the same ball and trying to act like they're the picture of good behavior but sirius is being subtly flirty and a menace?

Thanks for requesting sweetheart! Slight deviation, they're not together but this takes place just a bit after the first one <3

prince!Sirius x princess!reader ♡ 2.2k words

Seeing as balls are generally marketed as the pinnacle of refinement, you hadn’t expected this to be so loud.

Every time the hum of conversation rises, someone keeps telling the musicians to play louder too, until people have to raise their voices and it starts over again. A victor-less battle. You have an inkling that it might all be easier to handle if you had just a bit more wine, but you’re on your best behavior for your new family.

You try not to wrinkle your brow, leaning closer to the man in front of you as the violins crescendo. “Sorry?” you ask, politely as you can.

A flicker of irritation crosses his face. You try not to wince. He tells you the title of his job again.

“Ah.” You nod, trying to look as though you understand the importance of this jumble of fancy-sounding words. “That’s so interesting. What does that entail?”

He’s thrilled you’ve asked. As the man launches into a thorough description of his day-to-day duties for the kingdom, you contemplate how surprisingly relevant a competence in lip-reading might be to your new role as princess. Is this something you’re going to have to do all of the time? You haven’t been able to make out half of what this man has said since he made his way over to you.

It’s pointless anyway. As soon as you notice Sirius Black standing behind him, you’re gone.

It’s been hardly a week since your illicit meeting with the Black heir. You’d munched on chicken nuggets, traded complaints about palace life and your wildly different upbringings. When a guard had come to fetch him back to his parents you’d hid behind the door, and to the best of your knowledge you’ve both pretended the meeting never happened ever since.

Now, he’s dark and gleaming under the light from the chandelier. He smiles dashingly at someone shaking his father’s hand, standing beside both of his parents and slightly in front of another boy you suppose must be his brother. You haven’t actually seen anyone in his family before now, but the connection isn’t difficult to draw; they’re eerily similar. Pitch black hair and pale skin stretched tight over delicate bones. Most horrifying of all, they’re wearing identical shades of black, the homogeneity of the men’s suits too precise to be incidental, except…

Sirius’ suit jacket shimmers with a silver sheen in certain lights.

Your lips curve before you can stop them. You hardly know him, but already this seems typical; he has to be different. Has to set himself apart. It’s less tiresome than it ought to be.

As though your thoughts have been broadcast across the room, Sirius’ head turns minutely in your direction. His eyes catch you and hold you.

It’s lucky the man standing in front of you doesn’t seem to notice how your gaze has wandered. He chatters on, unaware that your palms have slickened or that your heart has started pittering fiercely inside your chest. Sirius says something to his companions and peels off. He starts towards you.

You look back to your conversation partner, managing a nod of faux comprehension just before he reaches you.

You let your eyes flare as he stops beside the two of you, willing some surprise into your expression, but your voice comes out even more startled than you intend when you hiccup out, “Your highness.”

“Your highness,” Sirius says back, the faintest of smirks curving his lips as he inclines his head to you, then the man in front of you. “Lord Chamberlain.”

Shit. How does he know this guy’s name and you don’t?

Lord Chamberlain looks nearly as caught offguard by the prince’s notice as you are. “Your highness.” He puffs up. “I didn’t realize we would be enjoying your presence this evening.”

“Yes, my brother was supposed to be the only one accompanying my parents on this visit.” Sirius sounds even more polished than the last time you spoke with him. There’s an easy grace to his posture, an inherent knowledge of the tiny moves that allow one to conform to the etiquette of this culture which you’re still struggling to grasp yourself. But his eyes flash when they meet yours, a glimpse of that waggish boy you met in the sitting room. “However, during my last visit I found an interest in your lovely kingdom I’ve not had before.”

Lord Chamberlain begins to prattle on about the perfect astuteness of the prince, the many, many attractive qualities of your kingdom, few of which would be quite so perfect if not augmented by himself…Sirius nods with practiced diplomacy, waiting only for the man to take a breath before he turns his attention fully to you.

“I hoped you might join me for a dance,” he says, leaning closer so he doesn’t have to raise his voice over the music. “The next one is about to start.”

“Oh I’m not supposed—” You cut yourself off, eyes darting to the courtier monitoring you from the edge of the room. You imagine you’re not supposed to say what you’re not supposed to do. “I’m really not much for dancing.”

“Come on.” Sirius’ expression is teasing. “It’s rude to turn down an invitation from your guests. Isn’t it, Lord Chamberlain?”

Lord Chamberlain looks as though if Sirius proves that he knows his name another time he might be in danger of swooning.

“Yes,” he chokes out. His eyes when they meet yours are something akin to desperate. “Princess, it’s good form.”

You catch yourself chewing the inside of your lip, stopping as you look back to Sirius. You don’t think he would tattle on you for violating whatever atavistic rule requires you to dance with him, but Lord Bootlicker might.

“All right,” you say. Far less polite than society allows, you’re sure, but Sirius grins nonetheless.

“Excellent.” He takes your hand, leading you away. “Always a pleasure, Lord Chamberlain.”

The other man stands where you left him for a handful of moments, looking dazed, before beelining towards a server carrying refreshments.

“I don’t know any of the dances,” you hiss at Sirius as he guides you onto the floor. “I’m supposed to be staying away from here.”

“It’ll be fine,” he promises you, with the sort of confidence only a silver spoon can imbue. “If you just follow in the direction I lead you, your dress will cover up any missteps and I promise not to squeal if you step on my toes.”

You try to give him a droll look, but you can already feel it happening. You’re succumbing to his charms again.

There are only a few other partners around you, but here in the center of the room the noise seems even more overwhelming. Conversations overlap, laughter rings out, and music echoes off every wall in the large room. And just in front of you, still holding your hand, Sirius Black is watching you with his flagrant intensity. Even his eyes are too loud.

He leans close to your ear, breath fanning over your cheek. “Scoping out your dancing competency wasn’t really my aim,” he says. “I only wanted to get you close enough to have a conversation without shouting.”

You fear your thoughts must be bare in your expression. That afternoon in the sitting room was certainly memorable for you, but you were far from expecting Sirus to single you out afterwards. For all his talk about the novelty of you, he seems like the sort of person to have interesting interactions wherever he goes.

“Put your hand on my shoulder.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Sirius grins, and you realize your slip. No matter how the courtiers you’ve been assigned have drilled into you excuse me, sorry, pardon?, Sirius undoes all your practiced manners with ease.

“Your hand,” he says again, “goes on my shoulder.”

Just as you settle it tentatively atop of the faintly shiny material of his suit jacket, the music starts. Sirius places a sure hand on the small of your back and grins when you jolt.

“Easy,” he murmurs, taking your other hand and tugging you gently to the side. Everyone else steps that way too, and you let him lead you through the first steps of the dance. “I won’t bite. Not in front of your grandmother, anyway.”

You press your lips together to hold in a laugh, eyes finding your grandmother, the Queen, watching you from across the room. She’s smiling faintly, but the courtiers with her look less than pleased.

You swallow, turning your attention back towards Sirius. “They’re upset with me,” you say. It’s a relief to speak at a normal volume. You know your proximity means he’s the only one who can hear you. “I told you I’m not supposed to be dancing.”

“They’re not upset that you’re dancing, they’re upset you’re with me,” he replies easily. He guides you into a turn that curls you into him, his arm laying across your chest for just a moment before he turns you back out. “I have a bit of a repute.”

This, of all the things you’ve learned about Sirius Black, is the least surprising.

“So, you’re trying to ruin me, then?” you ask, half teasing.

Sirius grins sharp as a knife. He leans close. “Sweetheart, I want to ruin you in all sorts of ways. That’s just not one of them.”

Your momentary confidence drops right down to your stomach. If you thought you’d be able to play with Sirius and keep up, clearly you were wrong.

“We’re going to do a spin,” he warns breezily, saving you from any response. He lets go of your waist, holding your joined hands aloft and using them to guide you away from him and into a twirl.

Only, you go for it too quickly. You’re back in his arms while the other partners are still going through their slow turns. Sirius’ laughter barks out of him loud and sharp before he catches himself.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, resting your forehead on Sirius’ chest and shutting your eyes in mortification.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Sirius is still shaking with quiet laughter. His hand is friendly on the small of your back. “That was stunning. All the other ladies wish their skirts had fanned out the way yours just did.”

“Is skirt fanning really the object of the dance, though?”

“It’s eye-catching,” he maintains. You can hear the smile in his voice. “You can make anything lovely. Now stop hiding before one of your keepers has a stroke.”

You remove your face from his chest hastily. Your eyes flit to the courtier at the room’s edge before you return them to Sirius, cheeks burning.

His look softens. “Don’t fret, gorgeous, you’re not the only one who’s committed a faux-pas just now. That laugh earned me a proper glare from my mother. As soon as the dance is over, they’ll throw us into the dungeons together.”

“Well, at least it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to down there.” You bite down on a smile. Sirius, you’re beginning to notice, has a way of making all your worries about fitting into polite society feel silly. Nothing feels very serious when he’s around. Ironically enough. “Do we really have a dungeon?”

Another startled chuckle goes through him. This one is quiet enough not to raise any eyebrows, more’s the pity. “Not one currently in use. It’s a relic, with a door going out to the street so tours can go through.” He smiles, borderline sheepish. “I went on one when I was twelve.”

“You did?” You can’t stop the smile that leaps up on your face now. It shouldn’t be so easy to picture Sirius as a child, but it surprisingly is. A bit shorter and skinnier than he is now, skin and bones and night-black hair darting around and causing trouble. It’s an odd feeling to think that he explored your family’s palace long before you could, somehow both twinging and reassuring at once. “Is there a reason you’ve been here so often?”

Sirius looks genuinely surprised at that. “No one’s told you?” At your bemused look, he blinks, seeming to compose himself. His hand flattens on your back. You hadn’t realized he’d been gripping you. “Our families have been friends for literal centuries. My great-great-great-aunt was close with your great-great-whatever, and we’ve never let our claws out of each other.” He gives you a conspiratorial look, leaning closer. “I can’t attest to the relationship between the current ruling generations being quite so amicable, but we cling to each other nonetheless. Trade relations and all that. All that is to say,” he backs up, gifting you with a smile, “we really will be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Oh.” Your chest flutters with an unidentifiable feeling. You don’t know if you can handle seeing much more of Sirius Black. Every time you meet, it’s like he whittles away all your weeks of training and posture correction with a look. You’ll never make any progress if he’s constantly around to trip you up. “That’s nice.”

“You’re doing remarkably well,” he notes. You look up, for a moment worrying that he’s read your mind (he seems prone to doing that), but Sirius goes on. “I don’t know what you were talking about earlier, you’re a natural at this. My toes remain unsquished.” He gives you a secret smile. You return it wobbily. “There’s another spin coming up,” he says with a teasing glint in his eyes, “think you can handle it?”

Honestly? You think you’re already dizzy enough.

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eatmeandbirthmeagain · 11 months ago

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Could I make one where Balwin's wife is pregnant but during childbirth she is surprised and it is not a single baby, if it is not 3 triplets and they are chubby and pink, what will be people's reaction?

♡ Sweet Surprise - King Baldwin x Reader ♡

♡ Fluff ♡

A/N: Hello Anon! Thank you for the request, I think that this was one of the ones that got deleted by the glitch a little while ago so I'm so sorry about that, but I'm glad you sent it back in so I could complete it! As always, this is based on the film Kingdom Of Heaven, not the real historical figures. Enjoy!

TW: Leprosy, Child Birth

It was exactly one month after the union between the king and queen of Jerusalem that y/n fell pregnant.

After many weeks of trying, it had finally happened.

The young couple were overjoyed, having exceeded all doubts about Baldwin’s fertility due to his illness. It was truely a blessing from the lord Himself and needless to say, the entire kingdom was of the same opinion.

As the months went on, the queen fell heavily pregant. More so than what was expected. This worried the physicians greatly, believing that there may be something wrong.

Y/n was confined to the royal chambers to preserve her health until labour.

Baldwin was destraught. Thinking irrationally, he believed that it had something to do with his disease.

His anxiety grew with each passing day, no matter how many times his queen consoled him and assured him that the situation was no fault of his own.

---------------------

And then, the day came.

The king was out overseeing the construction of a new church in the kingdom when a servant on the back of a large stallion sprinted up to the small group of officials.

“MY LORD MY LORD!” he shouted, leaping down from the horse, panting and tripping overhimself.

“Oh my, are you okay? What is going on?” Baldwin replied, his heart quickening at the thought of an emergency.

“My lord, its the queen, she is in labour!”

The king and the rest of the small party waisted no time in mounting their horses and cantering back to the castle as fast as possible.

When they arrived, Baldwin payed no attention to the pain that his body was in. He lept down from the horse, ignoring the surge of agony that shot through his lower body when his feet hit the ground.

He was the first into the castle and ascended the stairs to the royal chambers in no time.

Breathing heavely, he pushed open the doors with the last of his strength before falling to his knees.

Two maids immediately rushed to his side, helping their king to his feet.

“Y/n! Is she okay? Is the baby alright?!” he asked urgently, still panting heavily.

“Baldwin!” y/n called from the bed, “I am alright my love, come see!”.

As the kings vision cleared, the bed that held his wife came into view. As did the baby. And another baby? And another? In the queens arms lay three, healthy, chubby, pink babies who were all sleeping peacefully against their mothers body.

Baldwin gasped, a wide grin quickly spreading across his mask covered face.

The maids helped him to the bed, sitting him down carefully beside his wife.

“They are all healthy sweetheart, thats why my belly was so big! There was nothing wrong, I was just holding triplets!” y/n said, an equally wide smile on her face.

The young king was lost for words and overcome with nothing but pure joy.

“I- I cant believe it! This is the most amazing day of my life! Oh thank you lord!’’ Baldwin praised, his grin hidden by the mask.

He pressed his forehead against the top of his wifes head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I cant believe this is happening! I have never been happier” he said, feeling tears of joy welling in his eyes.

Y/n chuckled, “neither can I darling. And I thought we were blessed with one, but THREE!”

Baldwin opened his eyes to look down at his children.

Each one was plump and healthy. Their arorable faces melted his heart.

“There are two boys and one girl” the queen said softly.

“Would you like to hold them?” she asked.

Baldwin thought for a moment, “I dont know if that is a good idea, what if they get sick? I couldnt live with myself if-”

“Darling” y/n cut him off gently.

“It will be okay. You are clothed and you are wearing your mask. Nothing will happen I can assure you. Allow yourself this moment, you deserve it” she told him with a smile.

He took a deep breath before nodding, leaning against the headboard of the bed and holding out his arms.

One by one, y/n carefully placed each tiny bundle of life in his arms.

Two of them stayed in peaceful sleep but ones eyes opened slowly. It was one of the boys. He did not cry like many babies would, he simply yawned and looked up at his father with big blue eyes. Big blue eyes, just like Baldwin’s.

The kings heart swelled with joy and happiness again at the sight of his son. His own son.

“Oh my love look!, he has your eyes” y/n cooed, looking at the adorable little boy in her husbands arms.

“Yes, he does!” Baldwin’s own eyes welled with tears at the sight and he fought back a broken sob.

Noticing his tear filled eyes, y/n placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“Are you okay darling? Whats wrong?” she asked, suddenly worried.

“I’m alright my love. I’m just so happy, I never thought this day would come. Theyre so perfect, youre so perfect. Thank you y/n- I love you so much”

He tried his best to prevent tears from running down his cheeks, but when the chubby little boy in his arms smiled up at his fathers masked face, he could not fight it.

Y/n wrapped an arm around Baldwin’s shoulders and pulled him closer to her.

“You deserve this happiness sweetheart. I love you, and our family is, and will be, perfect” she kissed her husband's cheek and layed her head on his shoulder.

The king nodded, a small smile returning to his face.

He felt like the happiest man alive, and he knew that as long as he had these children and y/n in his life, he would stay that way for all eternity.

#king baldwin iv #kingdom of heaven #kingdom of heaven fandom #king baldwin #king baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin x you #king baldwin x reader #kingdom of heaven 2005 #king baldwin iv x oc #the leper king #kingbaldwin #leper king #baldwin iv #baldwin iv of jerusalem #baldwin #koh fandom #koh

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another-random-paradise · 1 year ago

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Hello Child of Man! I have a request if it interests you.

What would the TWST boys (Riddle, Leona, Lilia, and Jade or Azul) give to reader to show their affection is honest? Like, it's their prized possession.

You write so well! Please continue. ♡ Thank youuuuu.

A Gift can speak a thousand words

Heyy, Thank you so much for the request, and I'm so sorry it took so long to write,, school has been a pain :') Thank you so much for the kind words and i hope you enjoy!!

---------------------------------------------------------

What they would give reader to prove their affection is honest

Characters: Riddle, Leona, Lilia, Azul

Format: Headcanons

Warnings: None that i can think off

Riddle

Red roses from Heartslabyul's Rose Garden

-This might seem rather basic and almost thoughtless at first, but these roses truly hold his entire heart

-There is the factor that his mother most likely raised him very traditional and conservative, so he was taught to gift his lover flowers

-Also, this is probably his first relationship, and the people around him, as well as the internet, will have told him that red roses, the flowers of love, is a good gift.

-but there is so much more to it than just that

-Both heartslabyul and especially the red roses are very dear to him, after all, the red roses are a, if not the, symbol of the queen of hearts and her kingdom. He himself tries to be as similar to the queen of hearts as possible, heartslabyul practically his kingdom

-By gifting you these Hand picked roses, from the Heartslabyul garden, he, as the so-to-say queen of heartslabyul, is gifting you a part of the most important part of his kingdom, and by extension, a part of him

-the roses are, of course, hand picked with extreme care, it's to ensure that you will truly only get the best of the best, because in his eyes, you deserve even more than just perfection.

Leona

His dorm uniform jacket

-Another one that might seem basic and meaningless at first

-But once again, there's more to it!

-Kings are most easily recognised by their crowns. Since he isn't the firstborn, and therefor not king, he doesn't have a crown.. But at NRC, the Housewardens are recognized by their unique dorm uniform, it's his version of a crown, so to say.

-Also, most beast men, including lions, mark their territory through scent, similar to their animal counter parts.

-And since he usually skips classes and spends a majority of his time in his dorm, he's usually wearing it!.. well, was, until he gave it to you. It's his way to mark you without outright admitting it

-Being second in line, most of his kingdoms treasures and similar things, have always been given to his older brother, so with the few things that are his, that he considers precious, he's very territorial about. and that includes you, the love of his live.

-The beastmen will smell his scent, and almost all other students will most likely recognize the jacket, both resulting in them leaving you be. An absolute win in his book.

-Also, when a king marries his lover, he gifts them the crown of his kingdom, but he is no king and therefore has no crown, so instead he'll gift you his housewarden jacket as a sign that you rule alongside him

Lilia

a precious fae gem

-No matter how young Lilia try's to act, in the end he's still an old man

-He'd give a thousand year old gem, that still somehow looks perfect. Maybe it's embedded into a necklace, maybe a ring.

-If you can take it out of it's original casing, he'll definitely put it into your favorite type of jewelry!

-chances are, it has been in his family for generation, or it was a gift from someone dear to him during the war, like Baul or Meleanor. Either way, this gem is very dear to him, although not nearly as dear as you!

-Him giving you this gem, is his way of telling you how serious your relationship is to him, that he definitely plans to marry you one day, and, most importantly, that in his eyes, you're already a part of the little family he has build himself

-In fact, chances are, that he gave you this gem after he saw you acting particularly like a parent caring towards silver, it just proofed how perfectly you fit in!

-He would have used it as part of your engagement ring, but he wants that to perfectly suit your taste. Also, that means it'll eventually be replaced by a marriage band, and he wants you to be able to wear the gem even after marriage, till the rest of your days.

Azul

Master key

-Azul values his privacy. A lot.

-As a child, he could seemingly never get away from his bullies, and even now, when he gets overwhelmed or reminded of his trauma, he sometimes feels helpless. So, chances are he secured a small room where he could get away, somewhere even the twins don't have access to.

-But you? you're the only exception. It seems that no matter what, you always manage to calm him down, he doesn't understand why or how, but you do. It almost scares him.

-For him to give you this, you'd also have to be in a relationship for quite a while, at least around a year. Bullying causes insecurities, and insecurities can cause quite the trust issues.

-He'd be so nervous about giving you it. What if it's a mistake? What if you think it's weird? But he loves you enough to pull through. He try's to play it cool. He Fails.

-Now you often surprise him at work, or specifically seek him out when you know he's upset. It flusters him every time, but he has yet to regret his decision :) He never will, he is heels over head in love with you

A piece of his moms jewlery

-This was more of a side thought, but i found it cute and wanted to expand a bit on it.

-Azul is an absolute mamas boy in my eyes, she made sure he grew up to be a gentleman once he grows up

-So, when he visits home, he most likely tells her about you!

-And she, in true motherly nature, is just like "How sweet, my baby is in love! Oh, how about you bring them back a gift! Do they like jewelry?"

-And suddenly he comes back with a piece of her jewelry, soon to be yours. He's just happy she seems to approve of you :)

-A blushing, nervous wreck, as he gives it to you and explains the reason for it

-Every time he sees you wearing it after that, he just starts stuttering while turning red. The other members of the board game club are very confused, they know you two are dating, but that doesn't explain why he turned into a tomato..oh hey, is that some new jewelry, prefect?

Fried my brain trying to find the perfect things haha, Lilia was definitely the hardest, but very fun to write nonetheless!

Feedback is welcomed, just be kind! Hope you all have an amazing day!

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yayakoishii · 1 year ago

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*cracks knuckles* ok so Sanji x reader where it’s basically the time in between Sanji leaving for wci where both the reader and Sanji are fucking shattered and they’re both miserable trying but failing to do what they need to do while also processing that the other isn’t around, like not a separation anxiety kinda way but like they genuinely make eachother a better person and they’re in love kinda way. and basically it’s the straw hats being a supportive family to the reader and Sanji’s family going “what the fuck is this guys deal” since they didn’t know abt reader. You can add a happy ending if you want but I’m talkin real angst.

beyond logic | Sanji x Reader

Fandom: One Piece

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x GN! Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Genre/Tags: Angst, Open Ending?

A/n: thank you for the request!! I tried my best to write this but I don't think I'm good at writing heavy angst much ;-; I'm more of a fluff writer so I struggled and I don't feel 100% satisfied with this but it's the best I could do...

I added in a little bit of more detail to this, I hope you don't mind! I tried to keep in everything you mentioned but if I missed anything or misunderstood, I truly apologise! Hope you enjoy this and that it is to your liking ♡

also available on ao3!

Everything Pekoms was saying had to be a lie. (It wasn't, you knew that.)

Sanji could never be related to Germa 66. That made no sense to you. After all, Germa were heartless, cold-blooded killers. Your Sanji was the kindest man in the world who hid his sweet nature beneath an uncaring and harsh attitude. Your Sanji was the man who smiled so bright, it gave you hope and not despair, like Germa's name did.

Of course, Sanji wasn't actually yours. You had never actually had the courage– or rather, the need to make your feelings verbally known. You knew. Sanji knew. What you two had was no secret to you, even though you hadn't put on any labels. You could see the intensity in his eyes, could feel your own heart thudding in his proximity. Your heart was no longer yours and the man who had it was long gone.

You collapsed onto your knees, tears streaming down your face as your mind went haywire. Sanji was trapped in between Big Mom and Germa 66. How were you supposed to get him back?! That idiot had simply left a note saying ‘I will be back. I'm going to meet a woman.’ and expected it to work?!

Bitterness unlike ever before spread inside your heart. You were not weak by any means, but neither were you strong enough to take on Big Mom or Germa. In this moment, you hated yourself for being so weak that you couldn't protect and bring back the man you loved. From a practical point of view, one could even suggest that dropping Sanji and going off to Wano would be the most logically sound move for the Strawhat pirates.

Fortunately for you, the captain of the Strawhat pirates was not a practical or logical person.

"Why are you crying, (y/n)?" Luffy stood in front of your crouched form, head tilted just slightly. You tried to suck up the tears running down your cheeks but it only felt like more would come out. "We're getting him back."

Luffy's face didn't hold any doubt or fear. It never did. You on the other hand were full of both. Never in your wildest dreams did you think it possible to take on one of the four emperors of the sea and the kingdom that erased your island by providing their services in the war your country was in. You were realistic and you knew that it was impossible, yet… When you looked at Luffy's determined face, even something so impossible seemed attainable.

Luffy could do anything he set his mind to. You couldn't imagine defeating Big Mom, but you also couldn't imagine Luffy losing. And amidst all of that, you couldn't imagine getting Sanji back. He was gone. There was a highly likely chance you would never see him again.

Outwardly, you continued to just stare blankly at Luffy and he knew his words weren't getting to you. You were usually a calm and rational person, always there as the voice of reason for the ship. Right now though, everyone could tell that you were in a state of shock and despair. Nami swooped in and pulled you into a hug, like the ones you usually gave everyone else when they needed it. The touch stopped your thoughts and instead you focused on the feel of her skin on your own.

"You're not alone," she whispered. You clutched onto her, tears slipping from your eyes. "I know it's scary. I know it seems impossible. But I also know that it's worth it for you."

It was. All your reasoning had flown out of the window when you heard that Sanji was gone. The thing about being in love was that it made you stupid. It made you give up what is logical in favour of doing what is impractical but desired. You wanted to see Sanji again. You wanted to hold him in your arms and tell him how you felt out loud. Even though he knew without you saying it, you wanted to say it to him. You wanted him to hear those words and come back with you.

The thing about being in love was… you were ready to risk death for a chance to see him again.

You were really being stupid. But it seemed to make sense to your heart.

"(Y/n)," Chopper placed his paw on your knee. You looked down at him with downturned eyes. "You love him. He loves you. So come with us. We'll get him back together. There's no way he actually wants this more than what he had here."

"Sanji may act like a fool," Robin placed her own hand on your head and you found yourself suddenly surrounded by everyone. Even Zoro was standing closer than usual, offering you silent support. "But he cares. And I'm sure, if you ask him, he will come back."

You watched them all, looking at you with kind smiles. Neither you nor Sanji had ever spoken your love out loud. It was a decision that only made sense when you were on a pirate crew as small as the Strawhats. To avoid any awkwardness and to not have to keep a relationship secret, it was the logical course of action.

But… you couldn't hide your feelings even if you didn't speak about them. Your love had made itself known to everyone in your crew and they were still here. They were the only family you had in the world now and so…

You decided to trust them on this one.

"Okay," you nodded and stood up, wiping away your tears. Your crew patted on your shoulders and back and every bump instilled more confidence in you. Your goal was not to defeat Big Mom or Germa 66.

Your goal was to bring back Sanji.

"Let's do this."

•

Sanji already missed you.

To be fair, he had been missing you from the moment you separated on Dressrosa but now, sitting with his ‘family’ and having dinner… Right now, he missed you more than ever. Every bite of the food only reminded him of your smiling face, your kind words and the sound of your laughter.

They said that if you love something, you should let it go. Sanji didn't like that phrase much. He believed that if you loved something, you should hold onto it for as long as you could. As long as you let him, he would be there for you. And he would love you even if you did not love him anymore. It had been the only natural answer when he realised his feelings for you.

He didn't mean to let you go. He didn't want to leave the crew. But if he had to be practical like you always were… then he was a small sacrifice to ensure that his beloved crew remained safe. 13 years had passed between the last time he saw Germa but the smallest of fears still lived inside him. Sanji knew what they were capable of.

And there was also the possibility that you would not love him any longer. Sanji had thought that fate was a cruel thing, to make him fall in love with you of all people. You were from an island that was caught in a war. The war had been going on your entire childhood and it finally ended when the other side bought Germa's help.

The destruction left a handful of survivors, including you. It was truly a cruel twist for you to have fallen for him of all people, unknowing that Sanji carried the same detestable blood. He couldn't bring himself to tell you the truth about himself. Now, there was no way you didn't know. You must have heard from the others when you made it to Zou.

If you hated him, he wouldn't blame you. Sanji understood.

That didn't mean he liked it. He didn't want to lose you. He wanted to keep you by his side for the rest of his life. The only one he wanted to marry was you. Maybe this was how it was meant to end all along. Maybe because he hadn't told you about his family, now they had come back to haunt him.

"What are you thinking about?" Reiju's question made Sanji look up from his plate. From the corner of his eyes, he could see his brothers staring at him too. Sanji couldn't bring himself to actually care now that he was finally in front of them.

"What to say if I ever meet the person I really want to see again," Sanji replied calmly. There were no words he could apologise with. Nothing to begin making up for all the heartbreak he must have caused you and the rest of the crew. He had gone along with Germa and Big Mom's demands to ensure your safety.

So why did he want you to break in and take him away already?

"Oh?" Niji grinned at him from across the table, a smirk of amusement playing on his lips. "What, did you have a lover on that dirty pirate crew?"

Sanji didn't answer. You were not his, but even so… he didn't want someone like Niji to even utter your name. He didn't deserve to even know about you. You were Sanji's person. You were the one he had accidentally given away his heart to. You were the one who always forgave him. You were the one who made him want to be stronger, better, kinder. You made Sanji feel complete.

"I asked you something, Sanji," Niji narrowed his eyes. Sanji internally flinched, already knowing what's going to happen afterwards. But he couldn't speak. You were his secret. You were the one thing he could never, ever share with his family.

"No," he lied through his teeth and finished the meal. Sanji stood up and walked away, ignoring the dull ache in his heart. He had walked away from the crew by his own feet. He was the one who made this decision. He was doing it so you would be safe. But even though that was all true, so was the fact that…

He really, really missed you.

°•❀•°

all likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

★ Taglist:

#one piece #one piece fanfic #one piece imagines #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x you #sanji x reader #sanji x you #op sanji #sanji fanfic #black leg sanji #angst #requested fic

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princessasmosprincess · 2 years ago

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I saw your writing requests were open!! If you’re up for it, do you think you could do a continuation of the fall asleep headcanon you did for the brothers but write one for the dateables? The one where they react to mc falling asleep on them and then when they fall asleep on mc? :)

Thank you so much for your request ♡. Here's a link to the brothers' version.

Falling Asleep (Dateables ver.)

GN!MC x Dateables (separately)

Warnings: Accidental contact with sleep inducing substance, this is a fluffy piece so it shouldn't be that upsetting but I figured I'd tag it just in case.

Diavolo: He never gets to spend as much time with you as he'd like, so the moment he has some free time in his schedule he invites you over to the castle for tea. The two of you share a padded bench on the balcony outside his bedroom overlooking the whole Devildom. He's so surprised when you fall asleep on his shoulder, forgetting that humans don't have as much stamina as demons, and you've had almost as busy of a day as he had. His heart is so full as he watches you sleep; he's so happy that a human would allow themself to be vulnerable and fall asleep in his presence (most demons in his kingdom wouldn't feel comfortable doing something like that,) especially since that human is you.

The demon prince has been running himself ragged between his duties at RAD and drawn-out meetings with the House of Lords. He was so excited when you accepted his invitation for tea at the castle, it was the one thing helping him get through the day. He just didn't expect to fall asleep on your shoulder a few minutes after sitting down at the tea table. He wakes as the clock tower strikes the hour, a faint blush dusting his cheeks before he gives an embarrassed but booming laugh. Your presence is soothing to him.

Barbatos: He's always so busy so recently you've begun visiting the Demon Lord's castle on nights Lucifer has scheduled meetings with Diavolo so you can spend time with the butler. Tonight's "date" is in the tea room for its bi-weekly dusting, you folding napkins at the tea table while Barbatos works. The silence is comforting and companionable, punctuated by the crackling fireplace and the rhythmic sweeps of Barbatos' duster. All of that, combined with your repetitive task, you find your eyelids growing heavy; and when Barbatos turns around to tell you he's finished, he finds you asleep. A fond smile on his face, he clears the table. You wake to the scent of your favorite blend of tea brewing as Barbatos watches you rest.

It's so rare for the prim and proper butler to fall asleep on the job but he's just so tired. He worked late into the night so he could have a few hours of leasure with you (he could have asked Diavolo for some time off but he is ever diligent and prideful of his work). He's fallen asleep against his folded arms on the table, right after he set the tea to brew. You let him sleep, thankfully he taught you how to brew this particular blend of tea. He wakes with a start just as you're removing the infuser basket, blush rising on his cheeks as he utters an apology. You slide a cup of tea in front of him with a smile. It's really ok that he fell asleep, he needed it.

Simeon: On the occasion that Luke is spending the evening baking with Barbatos at the castle and Solomon is out doing who knows what, Simeon takes the opportunity to invite you to Purgatory Hall to keep him company. He finds it easier to write when you're around, something about you sparks inspiration within him. He lets you get a first look at what he's written, whether that's poetry, a short story, or part of the next installment of TSL (don't tell Levi, he'd be so jealous). He's about to hand you a finished page when he sees that you're slumped against the arm of the couch, snoring lightly. With a quiet little laugh, he covers you with a throw blanket. He loves the sound of your gentle breathing as he continues to write, it's the perfect background music.

Simeon looks up from his page as he tries to visualize a difficult scene he wants to write. You turn to comment on the page you're currently reading when his head hits your shoulder, having been lulled to sleep by the rustling of pages as you sat beside him. You let him rest and continue reading, your comment can wait. He wakes up several minutes later, smiling. In his dream, the two of you were the main characters of his story, and his unconscious mind was able to put the scene together in a satisfying way that works perfectly for what he's trying to write. He picks up his pen immediately to jot it down before the memory fades away. If you ask him about it, he'll give a playful smile and tell you'll just have to wait until the next volume of TSL comes out. It's a secret... for now.

Solomon: You're in his room, helping him extract nectar from Night-Blooming Poppies to use in a potion when you accidentally rub your eyes. Suddenly you begin to feel drowsy, a known side effect from the flowers and you begin to panic, reaching for Solomon. He'll calmly reassure you that the flower is potent but harmless and that he'll be right here when you wake up. He holds you tightly as you drift off to sleep, whispering soothing spells in your ear, it's the least he can do to comfort you. Besides, you feel so perfect in his arms.

He's working quickly to extract the nectar from the flowers and enjoying his time with you when pollen from a particularly stubborn bloom sprays into his eyes. He tries to shrug it off but soon his speech is slurring as sleep begins to overtake him. Concerned, you try to keep him upright, asking him what you should do. He tells you the effects will only last a little wh... And he's out. You do your best to slide his unconscious body to the floor, letting him use your lap as a pillow as you wait for the pollen to wear off. He can't help the way his heart beats faster when the first thing he sees upon waking is the face of his adorable apprentice.

#this ended up better than the brothers' version imo #sometimes writing at 3 am is worse #obey me #omswd #obey me shall we date #diavolo obey me #barbatos obey me #simeon obey me #solomon obey me #obey me fluff #obey me x gn reader #obey me x gn mc

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yuri-is-online · 1 year ago

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I'd love to know more about Idia!Yutu once requets are open because im thinking so much about him, specially about how he would succeed in preventing the bad ending, I wanna see him succeed so bad . The themes of being a hero as a shroud would be everything good grief

I wanna see him earn that happy ending and feel so proud of himself for it by the end

This boy is gonna be the hero his dad and uncle always dreamt of being because be deserves that , and that is everything to me

I'm rooting for him as his local cool and shady self-proclaimed aunt

Your writing is wonderful, I can't wait to see everything you've yet to do but will soon!

Lastly, remember to unshrimp and hydrate

o/ hello new friend, Yutu is very grateful for the support ♡

I wrote a hc post for Idia! Yutu over here but it got a bit cut off by the bullet point limit. I love the idea of the symbolism surrounding heroism with the Shrouds reach a culmination in Yutu. Greek stories have a heavy focus on tradgedy, and while there is something tragic about Yutu having to live through that bad future and only find a way to fix it by going back in time to undo it there is also something hopeful about it. There is the very real risk that when he succeeds he will be cease to exist, I'm a bit conflicted on how I want to handle that? But one of the ideas I had was for Yutu to become a sort of time and world traveling mage, similar to how the Traveler in Genshin Impact is implied to have started out, or Sora and the keyblade weilders? It's been forever since I went through kingdom hearts lore... Of course he'd be proud to see the evil defeated and the day won, and since he's a Shroud he's also got to be so painfully smug. He succeeded, when everything in both worlds tried to curse his parents and resign them to the role of villain their son became the hero instead, life will continue and flowers will bloom in the underworld after all.

Thank you for the reminders and lovely words, when requests are open if you have more specific questions you wish for a detailed answer on, feel free to ask them.

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #future kid au

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moonstruckme · 2 years ago

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In a Week - send a character + au and I'll write a blurb for it (like vampire!Eddie, bodyguard!Sirius, etc.)

you made think of royalty au princess!reader x bodyguard!sirius mutual pining where they have both harbored a secret crush on each other but had to hide it for years because of their duty/position, only to find out that princess!reader is the queen’s illegitimate child and therefore unfit to marry the neighboring kingdom’s prince, delighted that her engagement has been annulled she goes to tell her faithful bodyguard and to confesses her feelings for him once and for all, while he (bodyguard!sirius) hasn’t heard the news yet goes to confess his feelings for her because he can’t take it anymore and is surprised by her confession

Thanks for requesting my love! Hope you like it :)

join the party

bodyguard!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.8k words

Sirius goes a little bit crazy every time he can’t be with you. He tells himself it’s a side effect of his position, that every moment you’re out of sight carries with it the potential for danger, but he’s come to know better than that over the last few years. It doesn’t matter if another very competent guard is on shift with you, or if you’re being escorted by a whole team of his best guys—it’s torture nonetheless, not necessarily because he’s worried about you, but simply because he’s away from you.

That probably explains the acute upset forming somewhere behind his sternum as he waits outside the doors to your parents’ room. Though far from a ceremonial meeting place, it’s the most secure room in the palace, so when your mother had said she and your father needed to speak with you alone, Sirius had no choice but to comply. You’ve been having a lot of these family meetings in the weeks following your engagement, though he can’t figure what about this one could call for such secrecy. Maybe confidential information on relations between your nation and your betrothed’s, or something like that. As much as he hates leaving you in there alone, Sirius is glad he doesn’t have to stand impassively by the wall and listen to plans for your marriage.

He can tell you don’t love the prince, not that it matters. He doesn’t think the prince loves you either. All that’s required of either of you is the appearance of affability in public. Romance was never part of the equation, and you’ve long since accepted that even if Sirius hasn’t. He’s been thinking about it for weeks, how different his life would become once you're another man’s wife. He’d have to help you weave yourself into the prince’s life, deliver you to your shared bed every night and pick you up every morning as if he didn't know what might’ve happened there, watch as you potentially fall in love with someone else. And love probably would blossom between you and the prince in time. It’s not easy to avoid when you spend so long around someone; Sirius would know.

He decided just last night that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He wrote his letter of resignation this morning. He’s going to tell you before he submits it to his boss because it’d feel like a betrayal to do it without you knowing, but he's made up his mind. He’ll stay for a few weeks to train his replacement and then bow out the day before your wedding. Sirius hopes you’re still open to being friends, but he’s not foolish enough to think he’ll get to see you anywhere near as often while you’re running a kingdom thousands of miles away. He’s just going to have to nurse his throbbing heart while he searches for a new job.

The door to your parents room opens softly, but Sirius stiffens as if it had screamed on its hinges. You emerge looking as graceful as you always do, but there are tearstains on your pretty cheeks. Sirius assesses you quickly, though there’s no indication there’s been any threat other than some sort of bad news. Your face isn’t blotchy, and the tracks are faint, as though you’d tried to wipe them away without a mirror to guide you. Whatever caused your upset, you seem to have mostly recovered from it now. Still, Sirius’ heart aches at the sight of you.

“Everything okay, Princess?” he asks, and it’s a business question but put in his gentlest tone.

“Yeah,” you say, and despite your prim appearance, the breathy quality of your voice gives away your discomposure. You glance out the window. “Can we, um, take a walk outside, please?”

Sirius has always appreciated that you’re kind enough to ask when you know you don’t have to, though he wishes you wouldn’t just now. “Of course.” He opens the door for you, nodding to the guard posted outside as he follows you through.

The weather has cooled recently, signaling the beginning of autumn even though the leaves have yet to change colors. It’s your favorite season. (Another thing, Sirius thinks with some bitterness, which he knows and your future husband won’t.) You look to be enjoying it well enough, face tipped towards the sun and breathing deeply like you’re trying to rejuvenate yourself. Sirius decides to withhold his questions about your tears for the time being, to give you a chance to get back to your usual content self.

“Is something wrong?” you ask without opening your eyes.

“I…with me? No,” he lies. “I’m just a little worried about you, angel. Why do you ask?”

“You’re clicking your tongue like you do when you’re thinking hard.”

Sirius almost laughs, it’s such a bizarre thing to pick up on. But you’re right, and he stops.

You grow used to someone’s presence when you spend eight hours of every day around them. Sirius knows which of your laughs is the real one, and which is put on for someone else’s benefit. He can tell which clothes you’re going to reach for before you decide what to wear based on how you’re feeling that day. He knows how you like your tea, and what dishes from the kitchen you secretly have to choke down, and that you prefer to use the servant’s passages when you can get away with it because you don’t always feel like being stopped to talk in the hallways.

But Sirius is expected to know those things. It’s part of his job. What had surprised him was when you started revealing how much you knew. It had started small (“You okay, Siri? You seem quiet today”) but soon the stores of information you’d been covertly gathering on him began to spill out of you. You started making him coffee after lunchtime when you knew he'd be having his afternoon crash, you’d switched to candles when you’d noticed your incense irritating his allergies, he’d found the pantries stocked with his favorite foods and the chef told him you’d requested them specifically. You didn’t have to do any of that, but the fact that you did anyway just shows the kind of person you are. It’s part of why Sirius is so painfully in love with you.

“I have been thinking,” he says carefully, “and there’s something I want to talk to you about, but it can wait. Do you want to tell me what got you so rattled in there?”

You take a breath, sitting down on a nearby bench and patting the space next to you. Sirius knows he should really stay standing, keep scanning the area, but he checks nonverbally with the guard nearest and, receiving a nod, sits beside you. You look like you’re steadying yourself.

“Hey,” he says softly, placing his hand atop yours. “What’s going on, sweetheart? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you reply, leaning closer to him in that familiar way he’s going to miss. “Yeah, sorry, I am. It was a mix of good and bad, actually. Um, I’m not the king’s daughter.”

Sirius blinks, almost pulling away in shock. Of all the things he’d been expecting you to say, that one hadn’t made the list. “You’re not?”

You shake your head, looking distantly at the rose bushes in front of you. “No. My mom had an affair with some—some merchant, I guess. He’s dead now.” Your voice is detached, as if you’re talking of someone you read about in the paper rather than your biological father. “He died a few days ago, apparently. That’s when my mom finally decided to tell my—the king.”

Sirius turns toward you more fully, setting his hand on your knee. He can’t imagine what you’re going through, all this information all at once, the fabric of your life torn and revealed to be thin as paper. “What does that mean for you?”

“I’m still a princess, but—” you blow out a breath, disturbing the pieces of hair around your face “—it’s weird. The royal line is through my father, so I don’t have any official power or anything. But I still get to live here, play the part. Like a figurehead or something.” You look at him for the first time, something surprisingly like hope in your gaze. “But since I don’t have royal blood, I can’t marry the prince.”

Sirius freezes, not allowing himself any outward reaction. His heart contracts for your loss even as his own selfish joy makes him dizzy.

“Are you okay?” he asks. It’s almost a whisper.

“I shouldn’t be,” you reply, just as softly. “He’s a decent man, and the best alliance we could have hoped for. But honestly, I’m relieved.”

Sirius lets out a breath, thumb stroking your knee soothingly. “That’s understandable, angel. You’ve just had your whole world shaken up, it’d be a lot to have to move to another kingdom after all that.”

“I mean, I didn’t love him.” You shrug, and Sirius grins at the bizarre lightness with which you talk of your marriage. You’re coming back to yourself slowly, even if there still seems to be something holding you back. Then you begin to gnaw at your bottom lip, your dead giveaway that you’re feeling nervous. Sirius waits. “I don’t think I ever could have loved him, honestly. There’s…there’s always been someone else I’d rather be with.”

Sirius thinks he’s stopped breathing. It’s a good thing he’d put another guard in charge of watching your perimeter, because he’s definitely not capable of it right now. “Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You nod, and he feels awful for your lip, the poor mistreated thing. “Yeah. I, um, I understand if it’s too weird for you, Siri. I just, I’m sorry. I feel like I have to tell you.” You let out a little laugh, pitched high by nerves but real. “It’s a day for confessions, apparently.”

“Sweetheart.” He squeezes your knee, and you jolt a little. He waits until you’re looking at him to speak. “I have loved you for so long, I couldn’t even tell you when it started. I never would’ve…” he shakes his head, feeling as though he’s in a dream. “I didn’t think there was anything I could do about it. I was about to hand in my resignation today—” your eyes widen in horror “—because I couldn’t stand to watch you marry someone else.”

“Sirius,” you say sharply, taking both his hands in yours like he’s going to run off on you if you don’t secure him. “You can’t resign. You’re going to stay, now, right? You’ll stay?”

“Of fucking course I’m staying.” He grins, and you mirror it somewhat dazedly. “Angel, are you kidding me? They’re gonna have to drag me away from my shifts after this.”

“I could always hide you in my room,” you propose. “I’ll bring you food and everything.”

“Tempting, gorgeous. I might take you up on that.” Sirius runs his thumb over your knuckles, relishing in the new intimacy of the familiar gesture. “Can’t believe you go to confess to me first. Typical of you to have all the power.”

You scoff incredulously. “Shut up,” you say, but you’re smiling, and that’s all he wanted.

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